


Acheronta movebo

by Speakthespeech



Category: Grey's Anatomy
Genre: Gen, character exploration, rambles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 07:23:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5407979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Speakthespeech/pseuds/Speakthespeech
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A character exploration of Cristina Yang. Mostly vignettes that lead nowhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dr. Cristina Yang walked briskly down the hospital corridor heading for the nearest on-call room, head, back and wrists aching. 10 hours of charting (the silent, pseudo-punishment Bailey slapped on her, still upset at the Chiefs indifference to her “surgical crimes”) and she had numerous battle scars of her own to show for it. Burke still wasn’t talking to her… not that she honestly expected him to, after she spent all day hounding his room, trying to find someone to gather the information about his tremors that he wouldn’t give her. 

She wanted to tell him about George’s dad… although no doubt he had probably already heard about it from some nurse, or maybe even George himself. 

_“I don’t know how to exist in a world where my dad doesn’t.”_

_“Yeah, that never really changes.”_

That wasn’t exactly true. Cristina had found out how to exist in the world. Surgery. The scrubs, the gentle sterile scent of an OR, a scalpel grasped in her right hand… Since her own father had passed, her step father Saul stepped in to replace that empty spot but to no avail. Cristina had worked and worked to achieve a state in which she could find some sort of… solace. The work had eventually resulted in her B.A from Smith, Ph.D from Berkeley and MD from Stanford. And yet after years of hard, hard work she never felt truly liberated from the anchor until her first time standing in the OR… She had found her way to exist. It's not as if George couldn't handle himself, or that she wanted to collect him like the strays that Meredith was always picking up around the hospital, left right and centre. But for some god-forsaken reason Cristina felt the need to let George know that he wasn’t alone. Cristina looked up from the hospital floor, just in time to narrowly dodge a linen cart pushed by a nurse aid. She stood at the side of the hallway for a few seconds, her brain struggling to catch up to with body, before resuming down the hallway and diving into the first unlocked on-call room.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because sometimes, although Cristina actually does fancy herself a robot, those pesky darn feeling won't just stay down.

Callie Torres was the first person in Seattle-Grace who had never asked for anything from Cristina. Meredith, well she had problems of her own that seemed never-ending. Sometimes even Yang couldn't compete with the darkness radiating from Meredith Grey like swaths of heavy silk. Burke, he wanted Cristina to give him everything she had, much good that it did him. Owen, all he wanted was her love, and he already had that from the moment he had pulled the rapidly melting icicle from her chest. Torres had never asked Cristina for anything from the moment they met with Cristina running around the ER as an intern, trolling for cases behind Dr. Bailey’s back, to when they moved in together and even after. Sure, she had harassed Yang about picking up her clothes off the kitchen table, and washing her own dishes after trashing their shared kitchen with botched attempts at making macaroni and cheese after writing dozens of post-op’s. But there was a silent and tacit agreement that as long as Yang didn't want to tell, Callie wouldn't ask. It wasn’t until she had asked Yang to be the godmother of her baby that Cristina had felt she could give anything to Callie. And now, here Torres was, unconsciously _taking_ from Cristina something she was scared to give: her skills, her control, and her emotions.

A flurry of activity erupted around her. Teddy, Owen, Meredith, Shepard… all hands on deck were probing Callie’s body, searching for injuries sustained from what Cristina had recently learned was a first class ticket through a windshield. “ _Dammit Yang_ ,” She cursed at herself, “ _Focus_.”

She closed her eyes and took a long deep steadying breath in front of the trauma room, forcing back memories of another violent car crash that had directly resulted in the death of her father right before her nine-year-old eyes. “ _3, 2, 1… Go_.”

She launched into action, swerving around other doctors, barely noticing the commotion around her now. The only thing that held her full conscious attention were the voices of the various medical staff around her, barking out information and orders.

“Check the Morrison’s pouch!” she shouted to no one in particular and observed as hands took over the area and began assessing the damage. Cristina ran around to Callie’s other side, grabbing materials before running back to the body. Her right hand brushed that of person next to her and she looked up into Owen’s blue eyes, staring back down at her with worry etched into his face.

Later she would, she reflect on the fact that Owen Hunt was always determined and rarely ever worried in a trauma situation. She looked down at the area she was assessing.

“Hold on! There’s blood in the right upper quadrant!” She yelled to the others. For a moment, everything passed as if in slow motion. Panic threatened to bubble up, and she thrust the emotion back down into herself. The Chief’s voice rang out, “She needs a central line.”

Yang whipped up her head, “I’ll do a subclavian.” And the rest blurred into neat, orderly focused work. Just the way she always did it. Emotionless.


End file.
